


Letters to Nemeth

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Academia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Books, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, First Meetings, Forbidden Love, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love Letters, M/M, Multi-Era, Romance, Story within a Story, Storytelling, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5338286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Including six transgressive, yet ordinary, love stories, from the Five Kingdoms Era to the present day, linked by Albion's most treasured epistolary text: <i>Letters to Nemeth, Or, An Epistolary Romance in the Time of Dragons</i>. (Reviewer 3 would disagree with several of the terms herein, but he'll soon have to recuse himself due to a conflict of interest.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Elena

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlin Holidays Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Merlin+Holidays+Community).



> Best wishes to the Merlin Holidays Community and thank you to the Merlin Holidays Mods!
> 
> This work is about love, mainly, but as the stories in it span nearly a thousand years, it does include multiple deaths, plus references to war, fear/prejudice, and all the associated horrible things people do to one another (or sometimes have to do to survive such things). If you are concerned about being triggered, please see the end notes for a more thorough discussion of content by chapter (contains spoilers).

###  Elena Godwyn – Five Kingdoms Era

When Elena is twelve, her father takes her on her first journey outside Gawant's borders. It's to the great tourney at Searesbyrig, in Nemeth. From their snug valley they travel south and east, through thick forest and along the coast of the Severn Sea until, inland, they meet the great chalk road that leads through Gedref (or southern Camelot, depending who you ask) down into King Rodor's lands.

Elena finds many of the tourney events boring and barbaric, but she can't get enough of the races and accompanying horse market, nor of the weedy, wise-cracking Princess Mithian with her glossy plaits and grubby fingers. 

Mithian is fourteen and an only child, just like Elena. More importantly, she hates olives, loves fish pie, owns a magnificent stallion, and whispers, "Don't worry, they're only statues. Just ask for a new saddle or crossbow. It's what I always do," when their respective fathers encourage them to visit the shrine of the Triple Goddess to pray for – of all the boring, barbaric things – _husbands._

Elena prays for three things. The first, a piebald filly she'd admired that morning, accompanies them back to Gawant the very next day. The second, a black mastiff pup to rear on her own, is gifted to her at Midwinter. The third, however, is not so easily named, nor granted.

It starts as a yearning, born just after that whisper – sideways glances, flickering candlelight on a serene smile, a hand darting out to squeeze her own – and shifts shape with every passing hour, every passing year.

Some days it's an itch; some days it's a flame. It's loneliness and irritation, inconsolable boredom in the company of other young nobles she's meant to enjoy. It's giddiness, obsession, pages and pages of galloping thoughts wrung out onto parchment under the suspicious gaze of her tutor. 

When Camelot's border squabbles with Nemeth or heavy weather prevents the messengers from riding out, her world seems to dim. Though she is surrounded by good, kind people who dote on and encourage her, Godwyn Hall begins to feel more a prison than a home – and a temporary one, at that. She overhears the gossip, notices the looks sent her way when envoys from neighbouring kingdoms are feasted in the great hall. She knows she's meant to marry some lord or prince with a prison all his own. She laments, in one letter to her friend:

> _I pray, at least, that he will keep a fine stable and not mind Sir Fancy's drool. Nor object to a wife who wears boots._

Then, during her fifteenth summer, Saxons renew their assault on Nemeth's south coast. Elena has no love for Saxons, but she can't help but feel a traitorous gratitude, as Princess Mithian is sent to Gawant for safe-keeping while her father rides out to battle.

At seventeen, Mithian is no longer weedy and sits her horse like a queen, but her wicked sense of humour and glossy hair remain. Elena's dreary court life suddenly blooms into riotous, scented colour. For the first time, she fully grasps what Cook and other common folk mean when they refer to someone as "heart outside my chest" in the old tongue. 

For the first time – sprawled loose-limbed and delightfully stunned astride Mithian's damp thigh – she puts a name to her third wish, though she dares not speak it aloud.

It is the bold Mithian who, rosy-cheeked and breathing heavily, cups Elena's cheek and grins, who tips her into the long grass and pulls her close for a kiss, saying, "Oh, to be your horse, sweet one, and never another's. For that I believe I would forsake my crown."

* * *

When word of Mithian's pending engagement reaches her, Elena buries her face alongside Sir Fancy's and hugs him tight about the neck, screaming into the velvet folds of skin and sobbing her wretched heart out.

Eventually she rises, wipes off her tears and the old mastiff's drool, and gathers all the letters from their hiding places. She intends to burn them, but Sir Fancy mistakes her kneeling by the fire for an invitation to flop across her lap and commiserate further. Before she can correct his assumption, she's called to supper. 

After a nice bit of roast pork, several honey cakes and a goodly amount of wine she finds she's more inclined to re-read them, smiling more often than not, fondling the enclosed scraps of cloth and pressed leaves, sniffing the envelopes for lingering traces of scent. She ties them all up in a single bundle this time, puts them in a leather pouch, and tucks it in her bottom drawer.

"She is more than welcome to him," she says brightly to all who will listen. Her love for Mithian is such that she cannot bear for anyone to think her jealous of her friend for succeeding where she had – happily – failed, and being the one to finally entice Camelot's new king from his bachelorhood. "In fact, I believe they are well-suited."

In her last letter, she writes:

> _You ask for forgiveness, dearheart, yet I shall give you none, for I know the truth. His affections lie elsewhere, as do yours. And as your hearts no longer live inside your breasts, I will call you heartless fools, and noble too, carrying out the will of your fathers for the good of your people, and keeping for yourselves only duty and sacrifice._
> 
> _There is therefore nothing to forgive, except perhaps my wickedness in imagining your marriage bed when I am low, and in my mind replacing the golden supplicant between your thighs with another, much more clever of tongue and, by all accounts, a far superior rider._

* * *

When word reaches Gawant that the engagement has been called off and Mithian's stay in Camelot cut short, Elena's heart soars. She sends a messenger to intercept Mithian's retinue, inviting her to come for a visit once affairs are settled in Gedref. It's been far too long since they've seen one another properly, each passing month longer and duller than the last.

The messenger returns in a week's time, bloodied and shaken, bearing the unwelcome news that he'd never reached Mithian's party, that there has been a coup in Camelot and the land between Gawant and Nemeth is now crawling with the Witch Queen's Southron mercenaries. He'd only been spared so he might deliver the proclamation that all noble-born allies of Camelot's former "Usurper King" must swear allegiance to the True Queen and send tribute or consider their lives forfeit. 

They hold out as long as they can, feeding themselves on hope that the Witch Queen is bluffing, that help will come from Caerleon or Nemeth, that the whispers of prophecy are true – that dark magic at the heart of Camelot will bring about the alliance of a mighty enchanter and a great warrior who will unite the Five Kingdoms. 

However, the day comes when they must flee. Elena takes little of her old life with her, but she takes the letters, keeps them close as they zigzag their way south. Their plan is to make their way to one of Gawant's fishing ports, secure passage to Odin's lands, and from there make their way overland into Nemeth.

One moonless night, while resting and filling their skins from a lake, they are surprised by a Southron raiding party. Elena grabs up a stone as she dives into the underbrush, thinking to use it as a weapon. She hears a scuffle and Sir Fancy bark-growling, then a terrible whine and her father crying out, first in the old tongue, then in the new, claiming that he's on his own.

For a moment she pauses, staring down at the stone in her hand and the pouch at her belt. She knows he's trying to give her a chance, that she should run.

Instead, she shoves the stone into the pouch, cinches the cord and bowls it into the lake before revealing herself. She strides towards her father's captors with her chin held high. She may not be a knight, but she and Mithian have sworn to live by their own version of the code. She'll not abandon her kin, nor be hunted down like a boar. If she's going to die, she'll do it defending her family and protecting Mithian's honour. 

Elena doesn't see the faint, glowing ripples that spread through the water where the pouch goes in, doesn’t see the queer, bright stars that shoot low across the moonless sky or notice the wind picking up, changing its song to something high and mournful like the cry of a gull.

* * *


	2. Sophia

### Sophia of the Drowned Court – Camelot Restoration and the Golden Age of Old Albion

Cruel and capricious as they were known to be, the Fair Folk, or Sidhe, did have laws of their own, often far more nuanced than those of man. For example, they could not abide murder of their own kind. The punishment for this was said to be banishment to the mortal realm until the guilty party could win the heart of a human worthy of entry into the Halls of Avalon. 

The Halls were only accessible to mortals via watery "Gates" found in deep lakes. Thus a murderer was, in effect, charged with repeating his or her crime. However, in doing so they were also replacing an Immortal Soul and – as Sidhe targeted the high-born or individuals of unmatched skill, beauty, or wealth – increasing the wealth and influence of their kind.

The cultural prejudice most Sidhe held against the human form meant such seductions were usually perfunctory at best, aimed primarily at beguiling or tricking the intended into sacrificing themselves. Most victims likely remained entirely unaware of his or her partner's true nature.

However, there are tales of genuine feelings developing between banished Fair Folk and their chosen victims – even agreeable cohabitation for a time – and, on the Sidhe's part, it seems there was an allowance made for those who, banished or no, developed an attraction towards mortals. They even had terms for it, which translate roughly as "chasing the tall herd" and "double changeling."

One such double changeling was a Sidhe princess named Sophia, who had volunteered to take the punishment for her father's crime. Unable to secure the heart of the mortal prince she'd been assigned – some say due to the interference of a jealous sorcerer, while others claim she simply found the prince far too hideous in aspect – yet herself blameless of the original murder, she was allowed back into the Halls of Avalon. After a lengthy trial, she was banished instead to the Drowned Court, a sort of purgatory in which disgraced Sidhe served out their corporeal eternities in various earthly lakes, wells and streams, compelled to grant the wishes of and beg offerings off those humans who sought their aid. 

It was in one such lake that she first fell in love with a mortal woman, a highborn lady with a changeling heart who rode like a man, had hair like the sun and – just as Sophia had done – willingly sacrificed herself to try and save her father. 

Sophia enjoined others of the Drowned Court to enact a terrible vengeance on those who'd slain her beloved. After, she recovered a pouch the lady had thrown into her lake; inside, she found dozens of letters speaking the heart of a mortal princess who had also cherished her beloved. She wove Sidhe magic into it so the contents might never decay, kept it safe beneath the waters of the lake for hundreds of years.

At first she clung to the letters jealously, feeding off the sentiments within and pretending that the words were her own, but as the years wore on she could no longer deceive herself. She witnessed generations of mortal folly and mortal love – the two often as not intertwined – and knew that what she held was a rare treasure.

When she began to feel herself fading from the earthly realm, she begged a favour off the Sidhe elders who had previously commuted her sentence:

> "Let me walk amongst the tall herd one last time, for I have stolen something that has no value in our world, and much in theirs. As my beloved is no more, let me travel to Nemeth, to the shrine where they bury their queens, and reunite the words with their maker. For that I will forsake my share of the treasure under the hills and my immortality amidst the stars."

Her wish was granted, her words passed on to the local magic folk so they might not interfere in her quest. However, whether it was a final, cruel trick of the elders or merely an oversight on Sophia's behalf, once she retook mortal form her Sidhe magic began to wear off. By the time she reached Nemeth, the letters were in a wretched state, as was she. Pale and dripping in green weeds, she wandered the land, calling out for aid and receiving none, for the people were afraid of her.

Some say she went mad with grief and died before completing her quest, others that the Triple Goddess herself took note and, weary of all the noise, turned Sophia into a willow tree. Local Druids, however, claim the Triple Goddess took pity on her first. They say she guided Sophia to the tomb she sought, showed her the magic box "hewn of Emrys' rock" – the Druids' name for stone from the legendary Crystal Cave – buried beside the mightiest of Nemeth's queens, and instructed her to place what was left of the letters inside.

This is the tale the Druids tell of Sophia of the Drowned Court or, as she is also known, the Weeping Lady of Searesbyrig.

* * *


	3. Sefa

### Sefa Everton and Dr Annis Parker-Green – Twilight of the Nation States

Battling the wind, Sefa knots her headscarf more tightly beneath her chin, finds her place in the book, and hurries to catch up.

"The good men of Gedref say," she says, continuing to read aloud, "that there is no shortage of treasure hidden in the hills of Albion, but if you are not the person for whom it is destined, you are not likely to find it. Even if you do find it, you won't be able to grasp it, nor take it away with you. And even if you do manage to take it away with you, by morning it will be naught but water and ash.

"The good men of Gedref say that there is a lake that holds secrets, a lake that wreaks vengeance, and another, Avalon, that forestalls death. 

"The…well, you get the picture…say that there is an army waiting in a cave under the hills, that their leader – the High King of Albion – waits too, under the waters of the third lake. They say that to neglect the land and her people is treason, and that when the Horn of Cathbhad is blown the High King will return to the shores of Albion to carry out a terrible justice, and that evil men's hearts will tremble at the sound of his boots."

"Oh pish!" proclaims Dr Parker-Green, gaining the eastern edge of the pit and clambering down. "Even if the old boy could be reanimated he'd probably take one look at the state of affairs, then stumble off to the pub with his men, leaving his poor wife to sort out the mess."

She bends to inspect something in the soil, then rights herself, hands on her hips. With her long coppery hair flying in the wind and fur coat collar she looks every inch one of her beloved Five Kingdoms queens. She squints up at Sefa with a wry grin. 

"Remember, my dear girl, men – good or bad – say many things, and so do their histories, but it’s the ground that holds the truth."

Sefa longs to say, "Yes, Ma'am, but histories are printed in books, which are held in libraries, and libraries are much more comfortable than muddy holes in the ground," but she knows this will put her in the doghouse with her mentor for days, and it's lonely enough traipsing around the wilds of Gedref and the Nemethean hinterlands. 

Three years on and she's still too proud to admit that the only reason she'd gone to that blasted archaeology lecture was to get a glimpse of Camelot University's first female professor – and she's far too timid to admit how much she'd liked what she'd seen.

* * *

Sefa's favourite time of day is well after dark, after they've stashed the equipment and maps and she's been released from the interminable task of scrubbing and sorting bits of old pottery in favour of preparing their supper. She's usually allowed a swallow or two from the flask, and after Dr Parker-Green has that again and more, she can usually be persuaded to veer from impromptu lectures on dreary things like soils or pig butchery – or scathing rants about her male colleagues – into the old stories, the ones her Druid granny had told her when she was small.

Dr Parker-Green will _never_ admit to being academically influenced by such tales. It's not the done thing, for one, but there is also a fairly vocal contingent within the University who think that anyone with a drop of Druid blood or magical ability – not to mention uppity, unmarried women, fancy-boys and other assorted "unnatural" individuals – ought to be branded with the Changeling mark and forced to labour for the good of the public.

However, Sefa doesn't think it's a coincidence that they're down here searching for the High King's tomb while all the published elite insist, from their cosy club chairs, that it lies within the 11th – 12th century borders of the kingdom of Camelot.

"The one about the Drowned Court," she'll say as they crawl into the tent. "How does that go again?" Or, "Whatever happened to the Last Dragonlord?"

All of the tales have such grim titles – The Martyred This or The Curse of That. More often than not they have grim ends, too, but in the telling there are often moments when Dr Parker-Green's face lights up. She'll play the part, be it an angry dragon or a lovesick fairy; sometimes she'll even take Sefa's hand, or pretend to swoon into her arms. 

Watching her, catching her, Sefa wishes that this could be her whole world: a cosy tent nest filled with stories; a wise, irascible woman who keeps a knife in her boot, a flask at her hip, and pencil stubs stuck in her hair.

* * *

The Weeping Lady's Cave at old Searesbyrig is the discovery of a lifetime, let alone a career. It's an ancient shrine to the Triple Goddess repurposed as a royal tomb, the chambers packed with offerings of food, weapons, scrolls, and armour for a dozen horses. There's no gold, nor a mythical army, but there are nine crypts – three with intact skeletons – and enough in situ burial goods to keep a dozen research assistants working into their dotage.

"This is it, my dear girl," Dr Parker-Green exclaims, high on brandy in a pub near the site. "This is my Avalon, at last!"

A young reporter, lurking nearby after an earlier rebuff, overhears her. By the end of the following day Dr Parker-Green's colleagues at Camelot University are reading about the so-called "Avalon Hoard" under the headline: _**LADY ADVENTURER STUMBLES ACROSS HIGH KING'S TOMB**_

Despite having made no such claim, she's a University laughingstock by week's end, especially after it comes out that the remains are all those of women, and that there's no gold. She gives up teaching, moves to the village near the site, and sinks what's left of her inheritance into her work. There's no question but that Sefa will follow her, and together they embark on a life of near-poverty and academic zeal. Year after year they scrape together funding, cajole local parents into letting their children come train and work at the site, and fight to have their findings published.

After a terrible bout of fever, Sefa gives up working in the field. She spends her days either typing up Dr Parker-Green's notes or with the parchment found sealed inside an unusual crystal box with Burial III, tentatively identified as an 11th century queen known as Mithian of Nemeth.

Barring a wad of blackened fragments, most of the parchment is in remarkably good condition. However, the sheets were stacked – some folded – and rolled into a single mass, so separating them is painstaking work. Each time she frees a page she copies it out, then translates any unfamiliar bits as best she can into the modern tongue, tacking back and forth between several cumbersome texts. She's so caught up in the grinding minutiae of it that she's got three complete pages and half a dozen more fragments translated before she realises what she's looking at.

"They're love letters," she tells Dr Parker-Green breathlessly when she returns from the site. She rocks on the balls of her feet, trying to calm her agitation. "Love letters from another _woman,_ her lover, just like in 'Sophia of the Drowned Court.' Look, see here…" She hands Dr Parker-Green her magnifying glass. 

"This Lady Godwyn was promised to some prince, the same one she thinks our queen is about to be married off to, but when it was her, she refused…felt all wrong inside, blah-de-blah – and I think here you'll agree she's heavily implying he was buggering his servant – and here in this other bit she speaks of feasting on our queen's…well, on her _fanny,_ Ma'am."

Sefa can't help the delighted giggle that escapes.

"Don't be vulgar, Miss Everton," Dr Parker-Green chides. But she's got that face on, the storytelling one that seems lit from within, and she presses a kiss to Sefa's hand when she hands back the glass. 

Before she heads up to her room, she says, "I rather think you've found your Avalon, my dear girl. A word of advice – not a whisper of this until you've finished, but when it's ready I'll put you in touch with an old friend at Caerleon Press."

* * *


	4. Freya

### Freya MacAskill – War between the Albion Alliance and the Northern Territories

When Freya is sixteen, her family's farm is destroyed by Rheged's tanks in less time than it takes to see to the morning milking. She leaves before dawn to cycle up to the high pasture, and by the time she returns, the house where she was born – and had expected to live all her life, given her druthers – is no more than a pile of brick rubble with its guts hanging out for all to see.

There is no one to see it, however, apart from herself, their old mouser and a few stunned chickens. She's attempting to dig a proper grave for her parents and younger siblings when the Sweepers arrive, a half-dozen rough infantrymen who chase her down. 

When she resists, clawing one man's eye out and slicing open another's leg rather than submitting to being a "war bride," she is branded with the Changeling curse-mark, marched towards the nearest prisoner convoy, and bundled into a cage in the back of a lorry. She recognises a few of the other survivors from surrounding farms and villages, but when they see her curse-mark, they spit over their shoulders and look away.

After a week, the convoy arrives at the fortress of Ismere, where all the prisoners are shorn of their hair and doused in sheep dip before being sent to work in the coal mines. Freya is shackled to another curse-marked young woman with a face like a china doll and hair that – when it grows back in – is like yellow silk.

She speaks a version of Freya's tongue. She says her name is Vivian, repeatedly insists to the guards that this is all a mistake, that she's no Changeling – that in her homeland she's a marquise in her own right, with many fine gowns. 

"Aren't we all," jeer the women down the line, laughing along with the guards who spit over their shoulders and threaten to beat her if she doesn't get back to work.

Freya laughs too, afraid of what will happen if she doesn't, but at night, in the cells, she pulls a trembling Vivian close and doubles up their thin blankets. She strokes her head, humming snatches of the lullabies she used to sing to her little brother and sisters. When the trembling stops, but sleep doesn't come, Freya whispers, "I've never had a gown, not a proper one. Tell me about yours?"

This is how they fight loneliness and despair, night after night: Vivian describes her dresses, and in exchange Freya tells her about her cows. The blue taffeta with the Breton lace, worn to a ball in an ice palace. Mimsy the shaggy brown who lows at the moon.

When they exhaust the finer details of both wardrobe and herd, they move on to shoes and chickens, handbags and farm cats, favourite foods and childhood tales. As the year passes – autumn subsiding into a long winter, an all-too-brief spring followed by a wet summer – they weave a rich cloak of words, a feast of imagined worlds to shelter and sustain themselves. 

The shared stories allow for a private doublespeak as well, so when Freya says, "Look's like Hildi's dropped her litter," Vivian knows to keep her head down and eat quickly, as their least-favourite guard has entered the mess hall in a mood, looking for someone to take it out on. 

And when Vivian – after months of platonic kisses, nightly fidgeting and frequent sighs – finally plants a searing kiss on Freya's lips, then guides her mouth to Vivian's breast, whispering, "The velvet, Macca. Make me feel like the cordovan velvet and buttercream silk," Freya may have no idea what she's doing at first, but she knows exactly what Vivian means.

She wants that feeling too.

* * *

During their second winter in the mines, conditions begin to improve. They are unshackled at night, given warmer coats, better blankets and more food. So long as they make their quotas and don't cause trouble they're allowed to attend the concerts and propaganda plays put on for the officers at the fortress – most of which are, in Vivian's opinion, "crimes against art" – and borrow books from a makeshift library.

Some say it's because too many of them were dying or going funny in the head, and the work wasn't getting done. Others claim it's due to outside pressure from Albion's colonies and the Western Isles, or that the war is nearing an end, or that the guards have grown homesick and soft…or that it's a sign the Once and Future King is risen and the Immortal One returned to Albion, come to save them all.

Whatever the grand motivation, Freya knows very well that the proximate cause of their newfound luxury is murder.

They are wearing dead people's coats, eating their winter stores, reading the books confiscated from their homes. It may be, as is the saying amongst the guards, that only coal and corpses leave Ismere, but Freya hears from those who work the shipping yard about what comes in. 

It doesn't stop her wearing, eating, and reading though – worse, it doesn't stop her from _relishing_ every scrap of stolen comfort. "They're ours now, darling," she tells Vivian, kissing the triskelion brand on her wrist. "Bought and bloody paid for."

One day, while perusing the new volumes on the library cart, Freya notices a slim volume with no title on the spine. Dyed green cover, quality paper. There is no author listed on the title page, but the frontispiece – a rather scandalous woodcut of two mythical beasts mating – and the title itself, _Letters to Nemeth, Or, An Epistolary Romance in the Time of Dragons_ are enough to pique her interest. She stays up half the night, reading it with Vivian by contraband torchlight, then stashes it behind the cistern for safekeeping. 

In the coming months, it's read and reread by certain prisoners, but it never makes it back onto the cart. Freya cuts the pages from the binding, loans it out in sections in exchange for cigarettes, boiled sweets and proper combs for Vivian's hair. 

Allied Camelot and Mercian forces capture Ismere just before what would be Freya and Vivian's third Yule season spent in the mines. No longer shackled, they still walk in lockstep to the waiting transport, hands clasped, the pages of _Letters to Nemeth_ lining their stolen boots.

* * *


	5. Vivian

### Vivian Ólavsdóttir, former Marquise of Lista – Interwar Period and War for a United Albion

With no homes, no herd, no family to return to – or in Vivian's case, only a worthless title and a few distant relatives who'd presumed her dead – Freya enrols them in the Alliance Resettlement Program. Of the options they're given, one name stands out: Gedref, the once-contentious territory through which the lovers in _Letters to Nemeth_ had to pass in order to visit one another. Vivian wants to take it as a sign, but she's no longer sure she believes in them.

Still, she nudges Freya to puts a cross in the box beside _Gedref,_ saying, "It's the farthest from the mines, yes?" loud enough for the clerk to overhear. She sees his slight, guilty flinch.

Freya catches her eye and nods. "Also farthest south."

Their curse-marked status is listed on the forms, but it's buried a good third of the way down amidst a maze of other official information. They make sure the triskelion brands are completely covered by their jumper sleeves before handing the forms in. 

The clerk barely glances at the papers. He gives them a tentative smile as he readies his stamp. "Not a fan of our northern winters, then, eh, ladies? Pity."

Vivian shudders, and can feel Freya tense up beside her. She knows she should smile back, but can't quite manage it. "Not anymore," she says. 

She'll always treasure telling Freya tales of sleigh rides and ice palaces, but their winters in Ismere have robbed the season of any festive appeal. Snow's not so pretty when it's covered in coal dust, and she's tired of being cold. What she wants is a warm, quiet life inside four walls that only she and Freya have the key to.

"Thank you for your assistance," Vivian says in lieu of smiling. Walking in tandem, they return to the lobby and wait for the bus that will take them back to the refugee camp.

* * *

For a time, Vivian gets her wish. After only a month's wait, they're assigned a modest two-up two-down in a resettlement compound in Gedref, overlooking the mouth of the Severn. With her fair looks and fashion savvy, she easily finds a place in a local shop, and Freya takes a job at a nearby button factory. 

They relish making the simple choices denied them before. The wear their own clothes, bought and paid for. They decide what's for supper, which brands of soap and tea, and when to turn out the lights. They learn to laugh without looking over their shoulders and to make love in noisy, unhurried ways that were never possible in the cells.

Their street's mostly others from the North, but as a whole the compound is mixed, and largely unfazed by difference. There are people from all over Albion and the Western Isles, including liberated Druid families and other magic folk who'd signed the Non-Aggression Pact. Attitudes are shifting outside the compound as well, especially as reports of the abuses suffered by those in the camps are made public. Still, Vivian and Freya keep their curse-marks covered. They tell anyone who asks that they are war widows. 

Each Friday, before Freya gets home, Vivian takes part of her wage and sticks it in a tobacco tin hidden at the back of the wardrobe. She's saving up for cordovan velvet and buttercream silk, for a new handbag and shoes and a beautiful new leather-bound first edition of _Letters to Nemeth_ to give to Freya for her 20th birthday.

* * *

When war breaks out again – uneasy trade and border agreements finally buckling under the strain of regional politics, prejudice, and greed – Vivian and Freya get hideously drunk on Nemethean cider and cheap champagne. They douse all the lights and lie in the back garden, holding hands and looking up, trying to find familiar stars. They don't discuss what will happen next. They don't need to.

Vivian makes love to Freya, there on the one small, scrubby patch of grass they've called their own. Then, in the morning, they head to the nearest recruitment office. The previous war snuck up on them, forced them into victims' roles in the blink of an eye. This time around, they are determined to fight. 

During the initial medical screening, the nurse asks them to get dressed and fetch their coats before the doctor has even examined them. Vivian assumes they're being dismissed for the marks on their wrists, but she's wrong. One at a time they are taken into another room, behind a padded door and – after several rounds of questioning – told that perhaps there is a special place for them in this war.

* * *

On the surface, the jobs they are given seem perfectly ordinary. Freya gets sent back to the button factory, asked to put in extra shifts helping train the new volunteers. She is also, however, given the address of a pub where all manner of "Changeling types" congregate, including a powerful sorceress named Morgause whom the Alliance have been courting.

Vivian, meanwhile, is assigned to the secretarial pool at the Central War Office in Camelot. She gives notice at the shop, says her goodbyes, then does something she thought she'd never willingly do again: board a northbound train. 

She spends six weeks training at the Central War Office, little of it to do with typing and operating a switchboard. From there she's smuggled farther north, past Ismere, all the way to Rheged. There, she presents herself to one General Oswald – former Crown Prince of Deira – as a disaffected Alliance refugee and the solution to the Northern Territories' PR problem.

And precisely because of who _she_ used to be – the much-admired and coveted Vivian Ólavsdóttir, Marquise of Lista, whom he'd once tried to force himself on at a winter ball – he laughs and welcomes her with open arms.

* * *

She spends three years avoiding those arms. Three cold, bizarre, achingly lonely years organising feel-good social events for the weary troops, hosting luncheons and fashion teas for high-ranking wives and mistresses, recording pro-partition jingles, and writing the scripts for a weekly radio drama called _Hildi of the North_. 

The latter is her real mission. Every week she takes the information smuggled to her by local resistance groups or gleaned over luncheons and teas and, using Alliance codes, sends Hildi the clever mouser and her companions off on a fresh adventure, where they inevitably triumph over whatever's vexing them and proclaim how much better life is in the Northern Territories.

She also includes a message to Freya in every script, not in the Alliance codes, but in their old private doublespeak. She has no idea if Freya's listening, or even if the Alliance is still allowing civilians to listen to Northern broadcasts, but it's the only way she knows how to keep sane.

At war's end, she is extracted, debriefed and detained in Camelot for the "irregularities" in her coded broadcasts. Under pressure from Purist higher-ups, her handlers accuse her of being a double agent, her pay is withheld, and she's forced to submit to questioning by a military tribunal.

When she is released, Vivian returns to Gedref, vowing never to set foot in Camelot again. She returns to a gaunt-but-smiling Freya and all her new friends down at the Merry Mandrake, who in time become Vivian's friends as well. 

Accustomed now to the weekly discipline of writing, she turns her hand to fiction, loosely based on the lives of the women around her. Her early works bring moderate success and spark a renewed interest in _Letters to Nemeth,_ which is heavily referenced in _The Ballad of Ismere_ and _Pillows at Dawn_. But it's not for another decade, after all the relevant information is declassified, that she writes the book that captures Albion's attention, the one about her own life: _The Changeling Code: Memoir of a Sapphic Spy_.

In it, she reveals that her handlers had noticed but never been able "decrypt" her secondary messages in large part because they weren't really in code. They were, as she puts it:

> _…a highly-evolved set of in-jokes based on a unique shared personal history; on knowing how she had viewed the world when she was five, ten, twenty, and remembering tiny, seemingly random details, not because they'd been memorised from a code book, but because they'd been observed with love._
> 
> _The generals, however, did not care how I'd done it. They were more concerned with the fact that I'd dared, and more than one seemed quite obsessed with the specific content of the messages._
> 
> _"Did you not write your wives from the front?" I asked them, eyeing each man in turn. There were nine in all, good, patriotic, spit-and-polish types in their Camelot dress reds with the gold braid and shiny brass buttons. When one gave the nod I said, "Well there's your answer. Those messages were my love letters."_
> 
> _"But you have no wife," he replied. I removed the heavy wristwatch I had worn for the past three years, rolled up my sleeve and showed them my mark._
> 
> _"No, but there is a woman I bed like one, who bears a mark like mine, and every time you button your fancy coats you should think of her and others like us, because we're half the reason you won the war."_

* * *


	6. Hunith

### Hunith Meadows – United Albion Under Purist Rule

Hunith doesn't believe in soulmates, traditional marriage or love at first sight. So it's not love when a strapping, bearded ex-member of Albion's Air Force turns up on the sixth day of Gedref's anti-wall protests with a bin full of hot jacket potatoes and proceeds to dish them out to the women in the human chain around the equipment yard one by one, saying, "Thank you for your courage."

It's not love when he comes back every day with more food, hot tea, and friends willing to help empty latrine buckets. Or when she sees the flash of gold in his eyes and realises that, whenever he's around, those little shits from Purist Youth seem to develop really bad aim. Or when he winks at her the day the government announces it has abandoned its plans to build the wall, then suggests a local lesbian pub for a celebratory drink.

And it's certainly not love when he stalks her halfway across Albion to her home village of Ealdor, turning up at her compound lodgings with a cheap used paperback edition of _Letters to Nemeth_ , saying "I have it on good authority from the gals down at the Merry Mandrake that this is the best way to woo a classy lady."

Balinor, however, disagrees. He wraps Hunith up in a bear hug at their impromptu handfasting, saying, "Don't you lie to me, woman. I saw the way you were looking at me that day."

"I was starving," she replies, and pushes up on her tiptoes for a kiss. There on the village green, before their friends and assorted onlookers, they agree to disagree. 

But on the day their son is born, Hunith is finally forced to admit she's wrong. She looks down into his bright eyes, now blue, now gold – changeling eyes, the Druid midwife fondly calls them, meaning it in the old sense – and gently waggles her finger in his grasping hand.

"Now _you_ are love at first sight, wee man," she whispers. "Your dadda was just love at first potato."

* * *

Hunith makes sure her son knows this as he is growing up – how special he is, how much love went into making him. For a time, after Balinor's death, all she wants is to shield her boy from the world, but that's not who she is, nor what she believes in. 

She starts taking him along to protest rallies and marches all over southern Albion. She smiles as she watches him being fussed over by her friends, a seemingly endless supply of aunts and the odd uncle or two who tell him stories of how she and Balinor first met and help teach him what it means to be different, curious, compassionate and brave.

The story of Balinor's death is told less often, and never by Hunith. For all her openness, that grief is something she cannot seem to confront with words. When questioned, she assures her son that his father died a hero, then tries to distract him with some new book or toy or chore that needs doing. But inside she aches, knowing that to a child it's difficult to understand how strangers' lives, let alone their civil rights, can possibly mean more than a father not being there to tuck him in and help build (then destroy) Deluxe Dragon Castle Fortress II.

She does her best, hoards the good days as armour for the bad, counts her son's every smile, new friend or excited outburst about a school project as a victory. Then one day she returns back late from a rally to get Viv Ólavsdóttir's name inscribed on the United Albion War Memorial to find him in a strop over something that happened at the youth centre, accusing her and Balinor of caring more about random old bints than their own son. 

She gives him a long, hard look – guilt and love and exasperation all mixed up together – thinking that at eleven he's too young, but also that she and Balinor had had boys younger than that throw bottles and bricks and call them ugly names.

She sits him down on the sofa, tells him she loves him, and starts pulling books off the shelves.

"These random old bints are why you're allowed at school and the youth centre, instead of being shipped off to a government work farm. This one helped restore your father's military pension after the Purge, so you can thank her for your supper, and _these_ …" And on and on, until she comes to _Letters to Nemeth, Or, An Epistolary Romance in the Time of Dragons._

She's not so cruel as to tell an eleven-year-old boy that these are the random old bints responsible for his conception, but she does say, "…and you're not old enough to read this one yet, but it's from your father, and when – if – the time comes you fancy telling a young woman how much you – "

"But that's just it!" her son wails. "I don't. I won't ever. Kara tried to _kiss_ me during football and it was like gross fish lips and now Mordred's mad at me 'cause he fancies her and I never… I only wanted him to…"

His eyes flash and a vase topples over, a puddle of water and a tangle of wildflowers spreading over the coffee table.

"Ah," Hunith says. She settles herself beside him, pulls his head onto her shoulder and rubs his back. When he's calmer, she gives him a squeeze and nods towards the bookshelves. "I think we're going to need some more books."

"Why?" he says, looking at her like she's gone mad.

"Not a lot of stuff up there about boys."

He shrugs in her grasp. "Whatever. 'S fine, Mum. The one about dragons sounds cool."

* * *


	7. Merlin

Merlin arrives in the city of Camelot on a bleak Sunday in December. It's more damp than cold, but the wind's in a rage, howling down the narrow lanes, bullying bits of paper and leaf along the pavement. He's not out of the station five minutes before his ears go numb; by the time he reaches DuBois Hall he can't feel his face. 

He'd been re-reading his battered 1967 paperback edition of _Letters to Nemeth_ on the train in the hopes of inspiration – and failing that, courage – and is reminded now of Lady Godwyn's description of her first, and last, visit to the city. It was nearly a thousand years ago, yet her words still seem perfectly apt: 

> _Of the journey itself I recall little apart from tedium, a sour stomach, and pinched feet. And after that… Oh to be a horse, dearheart! Not made to curtsey and smile and be judged for one's face, but readily greeted with knowing hands, given the silent promise of a rubdown, sweet hay, and rest._

Minus the hay, Merlin quite agrees. He dumps his luggage, rings the bell at the porter's desk, then wanders off to study the numerous framed photos lining the walls. Generations of students and staff, all stiff, posed limbs and staged smiles. What, he wonders, were their secrets? 

The Matron finds him thus, lost in thought before the 1980s, chafing his cheeks to restore some warmth. After fetching a trolley from behind the porter's desk, she bustles him and his belongings back to her office. There, she plies him with various forms and a welcome cup of cocoa.

"We were expecting you before tea, luv. Afraid the dining room's closed until breakfast, but there's plenty of takeaway options up the hill."

Merlin's spirits sink at the prospect of having to go back out in the chill, but he puts on a brave face. "Sorry about that. Delays on the line at Gedref."

"Bloody trains these days." She shakes her head. "Magic scare, sheep on the track, or 'routine maintenance'?"

The matter-of-fact way she says it startles a laugh from Merlin. "Er, sheep, I think. Or cows – some sort of livestock on the bridge. Whether or not magic was involved was a hot topic for debate."

She huffs, shakes her head again. "Well, you're safe from all that nonsense up here."

Merlin pauses, gripping the pen so hard his knuckles go white. He summons his most charming smile, the wide-eyed, gormless one that helped him survive childhood in a small village.

"Yes, I'm sure I heard somewhere that Camelot's sheep are exceedingly well behaved."

She snorts, then smiles back at him, a quick flash of warmth in an otherwise humourless face. Panic subsiding, he bends his head back to the forms, telling himself for the umpteenth time that he _can_ do this. That he's earned his place here, and that no matter what some of the old Purists trying to cling to power might say, he does belong. 

She watches him sign the last of the necessary forms, then hands over a temporary ID card and a key. "I know you put in for a staff flatshare, but I'm afraid the new units won't be available until after the holidays. For now it'll have to be one of the old fresher bedsits in the tower. Seventh floor."

"Oh, I…I see."

She whisks away his empty cup and returns with a stack of folded bed linens topped by a pile of post that's already arrived for him, including a slim manila envelope from his publisher. She deposits the lot on top of his luggage before launching into an explanation of Hall rules.

"Any questions?"

"Er, no," Merlin says, though he hasn't heard the half of it for worrying what he'll find in the envelope, nor the other half for trying to convince himself that it's thicker than it looks, and could totally contain galley proofs.

His book was meant to be published by now – _would_ have been if it weren't for bloody Reviewer 3 completely missing the fucking point – and he has it on good authority from his predecessor that teaching will soon devour his free time and any creative brain cells that survived graduate school.

"It'll be quiet until term time, but if you're in want of company there's usually a few people knocking about the bar. Deputy Warden likes his pub games."

"Quiet's probably for the best." He sighs, nodding at the envelope. "Dissertation to book. Seems I'm being sent back to the mines."

"Well then, I'll let you get settled," she says, gathering the forms and making a show of looking them over. Clearly she's hoping he won't feel the need to elaborate, and Merlin doesn’t blame her. He also has it on good authority that the quickest way to alienate people is to give an honest answer to the question, "So what's your book about?"

"Lift's to the right, luv, just past my office," she says, shepherding him towards the door. "Welcome to DuBois Hall."

* * *

Merlin doesn't meet another soul on his trek up to his room. It's in a corner of the rectangular tower, about as far from the lift as is possible. It's narrow and low-ceilinged, with magnolia walls and dark wood veneer furniture. Everything's tidy enough but well-used, covered in scorch marks and ring stains and reeking of disinfectant. 

He crosses to the lone window and raises the battered vinyl shade. In the distance, several brand-new buildings dogleg on up the hill, clad in bright stone, coloured tiles, and plenty of reflective glass. At the moment they're showing off the waning daylight, turning dull grey into flashing silver in between the rungs of the scaffolding. Merlin sighs. Somewhere up there is the flat he's supposed to be in, the shiny new life he's worked so hard for.

A sudden, especially fierce gust of wind slams into the window and sets tree branches thrashing in the courtyard below. Merlin jumps, then crowds in closer, peering down. There's a massive, gnarled oak in the centre, branches all but bare, surrounded by a scatter of benches and concrete planters. To the left he can see a slate tile roof with several soot-stained chimneys, and realises he's looking down on one wing of the original DuBois Hall, a 19th-century manor house that now sits at the heart of the larger complex.

"The worry tree…" he says, wondering if the old oak might be one and the very same as the tree Vivian had described pacing under on sleepless nights in _The Changeling Code_. She'd stayed at DuBois Hall for her military intelligence training in the 1940s. Back then it had been Camelot University's lone women's residential college, commandeered by the Central War Office since they'd never bothered to build any female barracks.

Merlin turns away from the window, sheds his coat and hoodie onto the chair, and sets about unpacking with renewed optimism. Things can't be all bad if he's surrounded by the ghosts of what Will, in his typical well-meaning, but un-PC way, refers to as "your lesbian spirit animals."

By the time he's got things sorted – linens on the bed, clothes in the wardrobe, all the important shit stacked on the desk – the weather has worsened, sky gone dark and rain joining the wind in its noisy assault on his window. He thinks about shrugging back into his layers and fighting his way up the hill for a hot curry, maybe stopping in at an off-license on the way back before tackling the latest bad news from Kilgharrah and Sons. But any way he imagines it, the walk home is still wet and miserable, and at the end of it there's still him sat drinking alone in this room, frightened of a fucking envelope.

He pulls a face, giving the thing the finger. Then, imagining it's something Lady Godwyn might have done were she alive today, he does the same to the nasty weather outside and decides to head down to the Hall bar. There's bound to be some crisps or pork scratchings he can scrounge, plus Matron had said something about pub games, which aren’t really his scene, but tend to attract the sort of men who definitely are. 

He scoops up the paperback before heading down. He tells himself it's for lurking cover or in case there's no one about, but there's also a teensy weensy – irrational, squishy-hearted – part of him that hopes Will's right.

* * *

Merlin's not sure what he'd been expecting, but it isn't a sprawling, brightly-lit room that looks as if someone landed a disco in the midst of a junior common room, then tacked a strip of Ye Olde Pub on at one end. The place is deserted apart from a group of men and women in hideous holiday jumpers clustered around the dartboard; the bar itself has seemingly been abandoned to the care of an immense bullmastiff. 

The dog gives a jaw-cracking, whining yawn as it gets to his feet, watching Merlin's approach. 

"Sorry about that," Merlin says, reaching out with his magic, letting the animal get used to it before he offers a hand to sniff. "Didn't mean to wake you."

The dog looks up at him with wide hazel eyes. It butts its soft, damp muzzle into his hand, then keeps pushing until Merlin tumbles onto a stool. 

"Cheers, big fella," Merlin says, chuckling. "Hello to you, too."

The dog crowds in beside him, leaning heavily against his leg, and rests its massive head on his lap. Sensing an itch, Merlin sets the book on the bar and scratches behind one velvet ear.

"You're welcome," he says as he feels the dog relax further. "And the drool's a nice touch, but…any chance of a pint?"

"Oh my _god_!" One of the Ugly Jumper women cries. "Would you look at that? Your hellbeast is molesting – "

"No, really, it's cool," Merlin calls out, lifting a hand in greeting. "I don't mind, but – "

"Cavall. Here boy." A male voice – posh, commanding. "Come on… Cavall, _come_."

The dog shifts its head off Merlin's lap and looks towards the group by the dartboard, but otherwise stays put. 

" _Cavall_! Here, Elyan, take this. And no going bust."

The owner of the voice is suddenly bearing down on them. Early-to-mid-thirties, rugby fit, mussed cap of blond hair. His current expression is far too serious for his jumper, which features a cartoonish reindeer's rear end – faux fur, jingle bell balls and all.

"What is _with_ you today?" he admonishes the dog. "Come. Heel."

With a reluctant whine, Cavall heaves himself away from Merlin and goes to heel beside his master. The man glares down for all of a second before rubbing the dog's head and murmuring, "That's better. Now who's this you've found?" 

He looks up, finally focussing on Merlin. "Apologies. He knows he's not supposed to do that with strangers, but seeing as you've been gifted with the drool of approval, welcome to the family. I'm Arthur… Arthur Pendragon, Deputy Warden."

Merlin accepts the hand offered him, swallowing nervously. "Uh, Merlin," he says, trying not to over-interpret the intent way the man's looking him over, how snug his hand feels in his grasp. He'd felt on much surer footing with the dog. "New prisoner."

Arthur's brows lift at the joke, but he doesn't smile. He drops Merlin's hand. "You're a student?"

"No. Lecturer. But apparently my flatshare's not available yet, so... For now I'm being kept in your tower."

Arthur grins. It tips him from generically handsome into truly appealing, and it's not just his face. Whatever's behind the smile changes his whole body language, relaxes him into someone Merlin's magic recognises as good, kind, and – wonder of wonders – actually _keen_.

"Thank goodness for that. Not about your flat, of course, but, er…" Arthur trails off, scratching the back of his head and making a vague gesture with his other hand. Cavall looks up at him and whines.

"You'd hate for the students to see you in that jumper?"

"Yes," Arthur says, grimacing. "Yes, that. Precisely. Cavall, _stay._ " He nips around the end of the bar, thumbing a beermat off the top of a stack and slapping it down in front of Merlin. "Now what'll it be? On me, of course, for the drool."

"The brown, please. Cheers. So you're the barman as well?"

Arthur shrugs, gifting Merlin with another smile as he rolls up his sleeves and sets up two glasses beneath the taps. He's got powerful forearms, beautiful wrists. "When I need to be. We're always a bit short-staffed this time of year, and Mary's wife went into labour this morning."

Merlin returns the smile, emboldened by Arthur's warm, easy manner. "Hm. Bet she said that just to get out of your crap jumper party."

If Arthur's smile makes him appealing, his laugh makes him a whole lot of whisky, pining, and bad poetry waiting to happen. 

Merlin fidgets on the stool, unsettled by the force of his attraction. His magic feels a bit itchy and wild, like puberty all over again. For all he's read and written about desire, he's not used to stumbling into the deep end of it within moments of meeting someone.

"And I bet you're just saying that because you're jealous of my fuzzy bottom." Arthur strokes his jumper, gives the reindeer's jingle balls a flick before he starts pulling the pints.

Merlin knuckles his mouth to stop himself laughing, says, "I don't know, mate. I'd need a closer look."

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. "That could be arranged. One moment, please."

Instead of passing the pints over the bar, he walks them around and perches on the stool beside Merlin, swivelling towards him. Cavall takes this as his cue to join in, barging his way between their two stools and flopping at their feet. 

"Charmer," Arthur murmurs to the dog. Then he leans an elbow on the bar and pushes his chest out, saying, "Well go on then, Merlin. Look all you like. You can even give it a rub."

Merlin does so, keeping his eyes resolutely on the stupid jumper, and not on the face above. The faux fur is soft, the chest beneath solid and beautifully alive. Which sounds ridiculous, as of course Arthur's alive, but Merlin can actually _sense_ it, can feel the unfamiliar rhythms of his breath and heartbeat more strongly than he does his own.

He pulls his hand away and wrinkles his nose, feigning disdain. "I've had better. Besides, I'm not sure Santa would approve."

"What Santa doesn't know won't… Oh good _lord_! Why're you reading that old thing? Please tell me you're not in the English Department."

"What?" It takes Merlin a moment to catch up. When he does, it's like someone's dropped a dampening veil on his magic, or switched off Arthur's shine. There was bound to be a snag, there always is, but Merlin had been hoping for something more manageable, like a foot fetish or pubic lice.

He snatches _Letters to Nemeth_ away from Arthur's prodding finger and cradles it to his chest. "No. Why? What've you got against the English Department?"

Arthur lifts his hands. "Whoa, hey. I didn't mean… I'm in History, alright? We share a building. Territorial rivalry goes way back, but it's all friendly. You know, we knock the stuffing out of them at intramural football, they book our favourite pub for their bloody poetry – "

"Is he harassing you?" Arthur's interrupted by a leggy brunette with 3D snowmen faces on her breasts. Merlin regards her warily as she saunters up, recognising her as the one who'd called Cavall a "hellbeast" earlier. Cavall himself, however, doesn't seem to bear a grudge. He gives a grunting huff and stretches a paw towards her shoes, as if to pull her into his lounging orbit. Definitely a friend then. 

"Because I may be his half-sister," she goes on, "but I'm a fully qualified solicitor with expensive tastes, so I'd be happy to sue him on your behalf."

"Merlin, Morgana," Arthur says tersely, gesturing between them. "Visiting cockblocker. She'll be gone after Christmas, I swear. Morgana, this is Merlin, our new lecturer. _Not_ in English, but…?" He raises an expectant brow.

Merlin transfers the book to his left hand and takes Morgana's with his right. He clears his throat. "Feminist, Gender and Changeling Studies. Replacement for Doctor Trégor."

"Oh, perfect," Arthur mutters at the same time his half-sister exclaims, "Brilliant! For that I'll take you on pro bono."

Arthur takes a swig of his pint, then swivels himself to fully face his sibling, one hand dropping onto Merlin's knee. "Morgana, please. It was a simple misunderstanding – mine, I'll admit – over Merlin's choice of pub reading material. And if anyone wants suing it'll be that Muirden creep in FGCS. Last Christmas he tried sniffing my –"

" _Letters to Nemeth!_ " Morgana cuts in, eyes locking onto the book. She steps nearer, batting Arthur's hand away and making an impatient gesture. Merlin releases it into her grasp, rapidly re-evaluating the situation and finding, to his great embarrassment, that he's most upset by the absence of Arthur's hand on his knee.

She caresses the cover, then flips to the frontispiece, her features gone soft despite her harsh makeup. "I fucking love this book."

"Really?" Arthur says.

She nods without looking up. 

"Why?" Merlin tries not to sound too eager. "I mean, I do, too – obviously – but this edition's a bit crap, abridged from the censored post-war versions. The '07 reprint of the original Caerleon edition though… That's solid. Have you seen it? It’s got hi-res images of the newly-restored Nemethean fragments." 

Morgana shakes her head, then looks up, and Merlin's shocked to see the hint of angry gold flashing in her eyes. Normally he's much better at sensing others with magic.

"Well, this was the one that got passed round at school," she says. "And it was the first thing Gwen and I read with lezzers and magic in it that didn't make us feel like we were supposed to want to kill ourselves, so… Sentimental value, I suppose." She closes the book and hands it back to Merlin.

"Shit," Arthur begins, reaching for her. "Morgana, was it really that bad? I never knew you – "

"You weren't meant to. You had enough to deal with." She dodges his hand, leaning in to grab his pint instead, then backs away with a brittle smile, saying, "Cheers, Wart. And it was a pleasure meeting you, Merlin. Expect I'll see you around."

There's an awkward silence, then Cavall lets out a great rumbling fart. Arthur groans and swivels back around, slumping over the bar.

"I've blown it, haven't I?"

"Haven't I?" Merlin counters, glancing down at the book in his hands, then over at Arthur.

Arthur turns his head to the side, studying him for a long moment. "Nope. Still the most intriguing man my smelly dog's ever lap-napped."

Merlin can feel himself blushing. He narrows his eyes. "And just how many men has your dog lap-napped?"

"That I'm not related to?"

Merlin snorts.

"Er, just you." Arthur straightens up, prodding a finger on the bar. "But that's beside the point. _I_ think you're lovely, as does Cavall, and now Morgana, too. Given that the statistical likelihood of all three of us agreeing on anything is extremely low, and that my position here means I rarely have a chance to meet men my own age – "

"Ooh, you're really selling this," Merlin scoffs. "I'm twenty-eight, by the way." 

"Damn. Shall I go back to free pints and cheap innuendo?"

"Please." Merlin pauses for a sip, book snugged against his chest. He thinks of Lady Godwyn's forthright confessions, Princess Mithian's evident bravery and wit. "And…"

"And?" Arthur's gone still, gaze lingering on Merlin's mouth.

"I came down for some crisps, actually. Was told I'd missed tea and didn't feel like going out in this weather again – at least, not on my own. Don't suppose you'd be up for a takeaway run after the beer? Hot meal, hot shower, whatever we manage to get up to in a single bedsit…?"

Arthur's mouth spreads into a sly grin. He shakes his head. "Twenty-eight, you say, yet you're trying the Freshers' Week pull?"

Merlin shrugs. He looks Arthur directly in the eyes, exhales, and lets his magic shine through, just enough to show a flicker of gold. "I hear the Deputy Warden's at an Ugly Jumper party, so he won't notice if I sneak you up to my room."

He sees the instant Arthur notices, the slight widening of his eyes and indrawn breath. The quickening pulse. Surprise, yes, but not fear or disgust. Nor the sort of grotty, calculating eagerness that some display when they encounter people with magic.

"Oh," Arthur says softly, still staring. 

"Yes. I figured… Well, given your sister, I was hoping you weren't a Purist or anything, but I thought you should know before…"

"Right. Thank you. I _was_ once, believe it or not…or at least that's what we were raised to be, but it never took for a number of reasons, and I – " Arthur breaks off as Cavall heaves himself up with a grunt and starts walking away. He chuckles, then slides off his stool, holding out an elbow. "What my impatient friend here is trying to tell us is that I should probably shut up, and that we can do much better than undergraduate role-play. Drink up and come with me."

"Where to?"

"The Deputy Warden's got private digs in the gatehouse. King size mattress, newly remodelled kitchen and bath – and I hear he makes a mean omelette."

"Sounds lovely, except… I'm afraid I only eat virtuous eggs." Merlin says it deadpan, just for the sake of seeing Arthur laugh again – of feeling the thrum of it up close, one hand curled round Arthur's biceps and the other clutching _Letters to Nemeth_.

* * *

On their way out, Arthur hands off a set of keys and a swipe card to one of the other Ugly Jumpers, an affable-looking man with a mop of curls and what appears to be an orgy involving Mrs Claus and several elves cascading across his belly.

"Everyone, this is Merlin, FGCS," Arthur calls out, already tugging him towards the door. "You can meet him properly tomorrow – or perhaps the day after. Leon has the bar, and I'll remind you not to make bets with my sister unless you enjoy being sharked!"

He detours them by the porter's desk and grabs a giant old-fashioned brolly with the Hall crest on it before ushering Merlin through into the old wing – essentially the ground floor of the old manor house – where Cavall is already waiting in the corridor with a slobbery smile.

"It's not far," Arthur assures him. "Just a short walk from here, much of it indoors if we cut through the library."

Merlin eyes the brolly. "So that's to shield us from flying drool?"

"No." Arthur gives Merlin a playful nudge then, after glancing up and down the corridor, crowds him against the wall. "This book, it seems pretty important to you, yes? I figured you wouldn’t want it to get wet."

Merlin grins, half a dozen filthy comebacks running through his mind. 

Instead, he kisses Arthur. Slowly at first, finding the best fit, then – hearing the low, eager sound Arthur makes – with a powerful urgency. His magic vibrates with a joy that seems wholly out of proportion to the situation. 

But then again, maybe it's not. Maybe it's exactly as huge as it should be. 

"Thank you," he whispers as they break apart. 

"You're welcome." Arthur cups his cheek and strokes it with a thumb. "Er… for what, exactly?"

"For thinking of my book."

Arthur gives a soft snort, tilts his head, and runs a hand through his hair. Merlin's not sure how he manages to look both uncertain and unbearably smug. "Remind me to pull out a chair for you sometime," he says.

Up ahead, Cavall whines at a closed door, asking for one of them to come open it.

* * *


	8. Arthur

There's a moment, just as Arthur is drifting off, when he wonders if Morgana and his mates haven't cooked this up. Because that extremely limited overlap in the Arthur/Cavall/Morgana Venn diagram of approval? It's not entirely a joke, and Merlin seems to fit almost too neatly into that slim, fragile space. Nice mix of nerdy sweetness and grit, unfazed by mastiff farts and Morgana's brass. Feminist. Passionate. Magic. Clearly fought his way in from the margins of Albion's Camelot-biased system of higher education, which Arthur respects, not to mention the two trim handfuls of arse, lovely cock, and a mouth you could live off for _days._

He's roused by Merlin sleep-laughing, then mumbling something about potatoes. He rolls over and looks at him – a bag of mixed shapes, to be sure, but one that adds up to a satisfying whole – and is reminded of his vow to Leon, made at Uther's grave, to stop indulging his old jaded twenty-something headspace.

Merlin is _not_ a well-coached escort, he tells himself, nor an elaborate prank. Cavall hasn't been bewitched. Morgana doesn't still resent him for being the favourite child, their father isn't spitting on his life choices from beyond the grave, and his students don't think he's a crashing bore who tells dad jokes. Much.

When sleep doesn't return, he gets up as quietly as he can, slips on a pair of pyjama bottoms and heads down to the kitchen for a snack. He selects one piece of Gwen's gingerbread and one posh chocolate truffle from the box Morgana had brought, then one of Matron's mini jam tarts – because that counts as fruit – and pours himself a glass of milk. 

He settles in at the kitchen table with an actual-factual paper copy of the _Albion Evening Herald_ but winds up on his laptop anyway, unable to resist the opportunity to catch up on a backlog of listserv postings and work emails. There's something about the man sleeping upstairs in his bed, about being awake in the middle of the night but not alone, that sharpens the pleasure of engaging with the good ones, and even enlivens the tedium of the bad. 

When he gets up for a refill, the sight of Merlin's book on the counter jogs a memory, sends him scrolling down to his exchanges last year with Kilgharrah and Sons over that manuscript they'd asked him to review. If Merlin's a scholar of _Letters to Nemeth,_ Arthur figures he might be interested in what the author – Hunithson, M. E., that's the one – has to say. 

_Our Changeling Way: Transgressive Loves, Transgressive Texts, and the Re-embodying of Albion's History_ is not really in Arthur's wheelhouse, despite the use of the word "history" in the title. His research focuses on Golden Age and Camelot Restoration texts, particularly those related to warfare and sport. But the publisher had reached out to him repeatedly, indicating that they wanted someone of his calibre who might speak to the potential relevance and quality of the book "within a broader disciplinary context." 

In other words, they'd wanted to know if it was a niche work of genius, a load of bollocks, or something he or others in his department might actually use in a tutorial.

Arthur winces as he skims his first set of comments. They're not untrue, nor petty, just… Now, it reads a bit like going at a soufflé with a hammer, utterly lacking in the diplomacy and restraint he tries to instil in his students before giving them permission to be academically ruthless. Clearly Morgana – and Gwen, and Leon – had been right at the time; Uther's death had affected him more than he'd realised.

But the harsh precedent had been set. The publisher had contacted him again with Hunithson's terse response to his initial comments, then again with a lengthier – and admittedly eloquent – argument for why Reviewer 3's critique was invalid. And that, well… Eloquent or no, as far as Arthur's concerned, that's the academic equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull.

He sincerely hopes the publisher had refrained from passing his reply on verbatim, though, especially the "peddling identity politics dressed up as historical fiction" bit and his suggestion that Mr Hunithson might be happier writing romance novels. He doesn’t know whether to take it as a good or bad sign that he hasn't heard anything back in months. Arthur flags the exchange for a follow-up, then keeps working his way through his inbox until his body hair pricks up from the chill and his eyelids start to droop.

On a whim, he takes the book back upstairs with him. Merlin and Cavall are still fast asleep, and Arthur watches them from the doorway for a moment, the one snoring softly on his back in a sprawl of limbs, the other stretched across the foot of the bed, drooling onto his designated fleece throw.

He wonders if it's too soon for photos. He decides it probably is, but grabs his phone and takes one anyway before sneaking back into bed. Cavall blinks, snuffle-snorts and shifts so he's lying across Arthur's feet as well. Merlin stops snoring, rolls so his bum's jammed against Arthur's hip, and smacks his lips.

"All cosy then?" Arthur murmurs. Their current arrangement utterly defeats the purpose of a king mattress, but he finds he doesn't half mind the idea of being the lodestone for these two. He imagines walking between Merlin and Cavall up to the Bear and Dragon or down to Memorial Park. He'll have to give him the full tour before term begins, see if he's any good at snooker or pub quizzes before FGCS press-gang him onto their team.

With these pleasant thoughts, he props Merlin's book open on his chest. He examines the riot of initials and inscriptions on the flyleaf, wondering what on earth the story is behind _B. W. to H. M. ~ 1985 Thank you for your courage_ inked inside a doodle of a jacket potato. Whoever had passed the book on to Merlin – and Arthur's surprised by the pang he feels at seeing it – had simply drawn an arrow to B. W.'s inscription, adding, _To my beautiful Merlin: what he said._

Arthur closes the book, smoothing a hand down the cover, then glances over at Merlin again. 

_Letters to Nemeth_ had been passed round his boarding school on the sly, same as at Morgana's, and he's familiar with Mithian of Nemeth from historical texts and archaeological reports. The spectacular horse armour discovered in her tomb at old Searesbyrig is one of his favourite exhibits at the Museum of Albion. But at school he'd feigned a reaction more for the sake of fitting in. It's not the sort of book he's ever considered re-reading for pleasure, nor has he ever thought about it in terms of personal impact – of it being one of those life-altering books the way _The Myth of Purism_ and _I, His Manservant_ had been for him. Morgana's earlier admission had genuinely surprised him, along with Merlin's vehemence.

Perhaps, he thinks, watching the dark mop on the next pillow, it's time he gave it another go.

* * *

Monday dawns hot and heavy – quite literally – then turns into a proper mattress holiday, something Arthur hasn't done since he was eighteen. Crumbs in the bed and the air reeking of sex. Lazing around between recovery naps, judging one another's tastes in everything from pie crust to football to foreign films and trying to make one another laugh with stories of embarrassing "firsts." They tip-toe around glaring differences in class background and upbringing only to go to the mat for them moments later, gleefully slinging insults that would get them in serious trouble if students ever overheard.

"Not going to find your old Purist Youth manifesto in here, am I?" Merlin says while rummaging in the bedside drawer Arthur's directed him to for a fresh condom.

"Of course not. I keep that in my office." Arthur waits until he has Merlin's full, furious attention, then smiles and reaches out with one foot, prodding him in the arse. "Right there on the desk between _The Changeling Menace_ and my nana's recipes for Druid babies…good lord, the face on you when you're in a snit. Get back over here and warm me up."

During their sole trip to the shower, Arthur can't resist plucking his triple-milled ginger and lime soap from Merlin's hands as he sniffs it, tut-tutting. "You can take the man out of the hinterlands, but… " He works up a nice, creamy lather and slips a hand between Merlin's legs, crowding him up against one side of the shower stall. "It's for washing, peasant, not eating."

"Even if I wash your mouth – _ah_ – out with it, you posh Cammy scum?"

Arthur leans in, kissing Merlin's neck and nosing at one ear, speeding the motion of his hand. "What's that, mate? Can't hear you over all the heavy breathing."

But there are also moments when it's just the two of them looking at one another, touching in an idle, going-nowhere way that Arthur doesn't remember from when he was eighteen. This is something richer, kinder. It's more tea than booze, not worrying about being used for his surname, less embarrassment about bodily functions, and a very large dog that needs to go outside.

It's openly talking about his family and his father's death after Merlin asks about the framed photo collage on the landing, then pulling Merlin in for a fierce hug when he chokes up talking about his own father, whom he barely knew.

It's daring to grab Merlin's hips and hold him still after he's straddled Arthur, then fumbling for the book on the nightstand and reading the censored version of Lady Godwyn's "Oh, to chart the radiant map of you," letter aloud, deliberately replacing prim words with much naughtier ones until Merlin's shaking with laughter and his eyes shine gold.

It's noticing that all the cacti on his windowsill are blooming, despite never having done so before, and that Cavall's somehow managed to get back inside on his own.

"Sorry, I should have warned you, asked if you – " Merlin begins, before Arthur tosses the book aside, hauls him down and shuts him up with a kiss.

"We can discuss limits," he whispers, "but never apologise for who you are."

* * *

Unfortunately, the other nothing-like-being-eighteen aspect is that Arthur has duties at the Hall, Merlin's feeling guilty about some writing he's meant to be doing, and there are limits to his mates' – and Morgana's – forbearance. By the time he bothers looking at his phone Monday evening, there are five new voicemails and over a dozen texts.

"Look, the tower's dismal," he says as they finally get all-the-way dressed, "especially this time of year. Believe me, I know. Why don't you stay with us until the flats open? Cavall and I could use the company."

Merlin makes a non-committal sound as he navigates his shirt buttons, something like, "M'yeh?" that Arthur can't interpret, not without seeing his face properly. He realises, with a sudden chill, that he'd never bothered sharing his visions of their tomorrows, has no idea if Merlin's even single. 

"Or," Arthur says, turning away and lifting his wristwatch from the dresser, "you're welcome to pop down just to use the kitchen or bath, if that's preferable. I'll give you a key. You can come and go as you like, no strings attached." 

When he looks over again, he finds that Merlin's paused mid-buttoning, and is staring at him with an expression – an intensity – that he cannot fathom.

"What if…" Merlin clears his throat, drops his gaze, and resumes doing up his buttons. "What if I told you that I'd quite like the strings?"

Arthur fastens his wristwatch and quickly crosses to where Merlin's standing. He covers his hands with his own, stilling them. "Even better," he says, and waits for Merlin's reaction. It's a kiss, just like their first – careful, self-conscious, then wonderfully _not_. 

When it ends, Arthur says, "In that case, I'm afraid I'll have to insist you join us in the bar later for holiday decorations and Monday night foosball, properly introduce you to your new DuBois Hall family, Mister…Wyllt, is it?"

"Oh, um…no, actually." Merlin shoots him a wry grimace as he steps back and finishes doing up his shirt. "My parents had a Druid handfasting, but it was during the eighties, under Aredian, so…"

"Ah." Aredian's first act as PM had been to get all of Aglain's reforms suspended. Arthur vaguely remembers all the protests in the city centre – or at least his father complaining about them routinely blocking his route to work. "Last Christmas Morgana confessed – " Arthur bends down to retrieve his belt from the floor. " – that she and her friends skived off school once to go fling rubber frogs and spiders at his motorcade."

"Really? That's awesome."

Arthur finds Merlin's socks as well, half under the bed. He looks over his shoulder, sees that Merlin's got a stunner of a daft smile on his face.

"It is. She is, as I am still learning." He straightens up, balling the socks and tossing them for Merlin to catch before threading the belt through his trouser loops. "So what _do_ I call you, then, for foosball purposes?"

"Well, legally I'm a Meadows, after my mum, but – "

"Merlin Meadows?" Arthur looks up, unable to suppress a smile. It sounds like the sort of care home his father would have given anything to avoid.

" _But_ – shut up, I know – that was only the surname they'd assigned her at the compound, so when I was eighteen I petitioned to use Hunithson professionally."

"You…" Arthur stares down at the ends of his belt. Forgets what he's meant to be doing with them. "Sorry, _what_?" 

"Hunithson. It's a matronymic. My mum's name is Hunith. Should have said that first, right? Anyway, as I already share my father's middle name – Emrys – and Balinorsson sounds bloody awful, I… 

"Arthur, you okay? Arthur?"

There's a moment where Arthur doesn’t think he's going to be able to keep it together – thinks he's going to piss himself laughing, or laugh in a way that'll make Merlin question his sanity, or say something there's no going back from. 

But being a Pendragon is still good for something, and that is discipline. Arthur likes to think his father would be proud of him for the way he fumbles his belt buckle together without looking, holds his chin high, and says, "I'm fine."

Merlin looks at him like he's anything but. "You sure?"

"Yes. Just remembered an urgent email I was supposed to respond to yesterday. I won't be ten minutes." Like the perfect wingman he is, Cavall chooses this moment to wander in and give one of his jaw-cracking, whining yawns, looking between them. Merlin visibly relaxes at the sight of him. "Actually would you mind taking him outside? I'll meet you on the path."

"No problem." Merlin slips on his trainers and heads toward the bedroom door. Arthur's not sure if he's impressed or jealous that Cavall turns and follows without a single hand signal or command. 

Merlin pauses in the doorway, looking back. "So…" He lifts his chin in a brief nod. It's a hard gesture, but on him it looks anything but – especially as his cheeks are flushed and his neck is red from Arthur's stubble. "I'll just leave that, shall I?"

Arthur follows his line of sight and realises he's talking about _Letters to Nemeth_. He grins.

"Oh, yes," he says. "I’m not sure you've entirely succeeded in convincing me of its merits, Mister Hunithson, but I very much look forward to our future…discussions." He adds an eyebrow-waggle, hoping for a laugh.

He gets a snort, then a fond smile. "We're going to disagree on a lot of things, aren't we?" Merlin says, stroking Cavall's head.

Arthur drops the silly face. He shrugs.

"And argue a lot?"

"Yes," Arthur admits. "I expect we are."

"Good," Merlin says, turning the smile up a notch before trotting off down the stairs with Cavall in tow.

* * *

It takes Arthur three minutes, not ten, to inform Kilgharrah and Sons that he is no longer able to serve as a reviewer for Mister Hunithson's manuscript, much of which is spent dithering over wording of the explanation. 

In the end, he goes with "conflict of interest," as "personal reasons" sounds too much like someone's just died – or is about to – which is hardly in the spirit of Christmas.

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> **Content Notes & Warnings**
> 
> The original request included various AUs (e.g., Academia, Fairytale, Spies) and F/F pairings, along with Arthur/Merlin, and a prompt for "Met-But-Don't-Realize-We've-Met au/epistolary au." I know I was meant to pick 1 or 2, but they must have had quite the affair in my brain the night after I received my assignment, as I woke up the next day with the title and plot kernel of this madness.
> 
> _Chapter 1: Elena_ includes 11th century 15/17 yo F/F consensual sexual activity and major character death.  
>  _Chapter 2: Sophia_ includes discussion of fairy dub-con practices wrt humans, unrequited love, and major character death.  
>  _Chapter 3: Sefa_ includes some man-bashing, pining/UST, illness, and references to prejudice.  
>  _Chapter 4: Freya_ is largely set in a POW work camp and includes references to war, death, homophobia, attempted sexual assault, branding, and other inhumane treatment.  
>  _Chapter 5: Vivian_ references similar topics as Chapter 4, plus issues of being a partially-closeted lesbian.  
>  _Chapter 6: Hunith_ includes an underage kiss (11/12 yo), plus references to government-sanctioned prejudice, civil rights abuses, major character death, and grief.  
>  _Chapter 7: Merlin and Chapter 8: Arthur_ include references to character death, grief, prejudice, and various types of past teen/twenties angst (but basically once you get here it's all verbal hair-pulling and rom-com.)
> 
> **Names, Dates, Places**   
> 
> 
> This is set in an alternate, fictional timeline in an alternate version of Great Britain. I based the initial "Five Kingdoms Era" geography largely on [this map by Versaphile](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1037453/chapters/2069264) and played things out from there, starting with Elena and Mithian's story ca. the mid-late 11th century and winding up ca. 2015. I don't think any of the following is necessary to enjoy or understand the story, but for the curious:
> 
> ~"Severn Sea" = the English translation of the Welsh name for the Bristol Channel. 
> 
> ~"Searesbyrig" = one of various old English names for Salisbury, but this is a completely fictitious version of it, envisioned to be something more like Old Sarum, which was the site of the original settlement of Salisbury.
> 
> ~In the show, "Camelot" was used to refer both to the kingdom as a whole and the city. I kept up that dual usage here, envisioning the kingdom shifting its borders over time but ending up as one of the most powerful nation states by the events of Ch. 3, and thus one of the key partners in the original Albion Alliance mentioned in Ch. 4 & 5, and, after unification, the region that's perceived as the political/military (and by the people in it, cultural) heart of the modern nation of Albion, with the modern city of Camelot serving as the nation's capital.
> 
> ~"Old Albion" in Ch. 2 refers to Camelot's/the High King's initial alliance with other kingdoms following the defeat of the Witch Queen; this alliance later broke down, leading to the rise of individual nation states; the "Albion Alliance" later recalled the use of this term to describe their alliance of central and southern nation states vs. the "Northern Territories," and following the wars mentioned in Ch. 4 & 5, "Albion" was adopted as the name for the entire nation as a whole.
> 
> ~Vivian is originally from fictional Lista, Norway (though there was once a real municipality by that name, or so Wiki tells me).
> 
> ~Merlin was born in Ealdor, in Essetir/Escetia, but did his postgraduate degree in Nemeth and was living there prior to getting the job at Camelot University (hence why he was passing through Gedref on his way up); he is, of course, also the sort of nerd who spent his weekends dragging his mates all over Gawant, Gedref and parts of Nemeth re-tracing Elena and Mithian's adventures, visiting Mithian's tomb, and stopping in for a pint of nostalgia at the Merry Mandrake.
> 
> ~DuBois Hall is one residential college within Camelot University (so analogous to such at Oxbridge); the original manor house was owned by ancestors of Arthur's mother, who donated it to the University to serve as their first women's residential college. It later became co-ed, and Arthur may not admit it in so many words, but there's a reason he'd never volunteer as Deputy Warden at any of CU's other colleges, and he absolutely adores playing pseudo-dad/coach/mentor to all his freshers. 
> 
> **Miscellaneous**
> 
> ~The Sidhe lore and fairy and Druid tales mentioned in Chapters 2 & 3 are a mixture of BBC Merlin canon and various Welsh and Irish fairy tales (or me aping the style of such). _The Welsh Fairy Book_ by W. Jenkyn Thomas gets a special shout-out for inspiration.


End file.
